Chapter 8: John

Chapter 8 – John

My stomach is in knots when I enter the lodge. It’s eight a.m., and I’m right on time to pick up Gabrielle. I stop at the front desk. “Do you know where Gabrielle is?”

Kevin doesn’t even bother to look up from the crossword puzzle he’s doing. He just points down the hall. “In the restaurant. She said you’d be coming by. She said you should stop in and have breakfast before you guys head out. She made pancakes this morning.”

“Pancakes?” Lately the breakfast buffet has been the same thing—cold cereal, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast. But pancakes? “Thanks.”

On the way to the restaurant, I pass by the guest lounge where Maya and Travis are going over the ground rules with a group they’re takin’ rock climbing today.

“When I tell you to stop, you stop,” Maya says. She points at a young man with long bangs in his face. “I’m specifically talking to you, Harry. If I have to rescue your ass one more time, I’m banning you. Got it?”

The one named Harry glares at her, while Travis flattens his lips to keep from laughing. Man, Travis has the patience of a saint.

I shake my head as I pass on by. Maya is a pistol, that’s for sure; but she sure knows her stuff. So does Travis. But he’s content to stand back and let her run the show. The two of them are in charge of the climbing excursions, but they’re also critical members of the search and rescue team.

When I walk into the restaurant, I find a crowded dining room filled with chatty clientele. I spot Hannah and Killian seated at a window table, eating breakfast. Gabrielle is moving efficiently through the dining room, stopping to chat with guests and refilling coffee cups. She smiles and laughs and generally makes her customers feel welcome. She’s a natural—a natural beauty as well as a natural when it comes to interacting with folks. She makes it look easy. I wish I could say the same—about the folks, I mean. I’m more comfortable with horses.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I stand off to the side, out of the way, and simply enjoy watching her work. She’s wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a short-sleeve white polo shirt. Her beautiful fiery-red hair hangs down the center of her back in a single braid. I yearn to reach out and touch that braid, hold it in the palm of my hand to see if it’s as heavy as I imagine. But as pretty as the braid is, her hair would be even prettier hanging loose.

When she laughs at something a guest says, her cheeks turn pink. Her cinnamon-colored freckles stand out like tiny specks on her creamy skin. Those green eyes are alight, crinkling in amusement.

A male guest waves her over to his table, and she goes to refill his coffee cup. He says something to her, and she shakes her head. Then he reaches out and encircles her wrist, and she steps back, pulling out of his reach. Son-of-a-bitch, it’s that Anderson guy who was hitting on her last night right here in the restaurant.

I’m about to march right over there and put him in his place when Gabrielle walks away, heading to the kitchen.

I pause in my tracks, and that’s when I notice Killian watching me, a curious expression on his face.

The aroma of hot food finally registers, and I obey my stomach’s command and walk over to grab a plate and some silverware. I pile a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, and toast. Sure enough, there’s a serving tray piled high with pancakes as big as dinner plates. Protein first. I’ll come back later for the pancakes.

I grab an available table and take my first bite.

“Good morning,” Gabrielle says, her voice light as she appears at my side. “Would you like some coffee?” She’s holding a coffee pot poised over the empty cup on my table.

“Mornin’,” I say, sounding like a bear with a thorn stuck in its paw. “And yes to the coffee. Please.”

She fills my mug. “Sugar and cream are on the table. Aren’t you going to have pancakes?”

I nod. “I’m goin’ back for more after I eat this.”

“Excellent. There’s plain butter up there, but there’s also cinnamon-sugar butter, which I strongly recommend.” She winks at me.

“Have you eaten?” The question just pops out.

“No,” she admits. “I’ve been running nonstop since I got here. I did grab a piece of toast earlier.”

“We’ll be doin’ a lot of walking at the farmers market. You should eat a decent breakfast before we go.” I nod to the empty chair across from mine. “You might as well join me, if you have time.”

“How can I resist?” she asks, clearly teasing me. “I’ll go grab a plate.”

Gabrielle goes to the buffet and makes herself a plate, grabs a cup of coffee, and joins me. I watch her fingers as she spreads butter on her toast, then some strawberry preserves.

She takes a neat bite and smiles. “Mm. You can’t beat good ol’ toast with butter and jam.”

I find myself staring at her mouth as she chews. I like the way she chews. Kind of dainty and feminine. I find myself staring at her lips.

Tammy stops at our table and grins at me. “Can I get you folks anything from the buffet? More coffee?”

“Not me,” I say. “I’m good.”

Gabrielle politely covers her mouth as she swallows a bite of food and smiles. She shakes her head.

“She’s good,” I say.

“You guys got plans this morning?” Tammy asks.

Gabrielle takes a sip of her coffee. “We’re going to the farmers market.”

“Together?” Tammy asks. She eyes me curiously. “Really?”

“Yes.” I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just a farmers market. It’s not like we’re going out for a movie and dinner. It’s not a date. It’s a supply run.

“Well, have fun.” With a chuckle, Tammy moves on.

I scan the room and notice there are more than a few eyeballs directed our way. People are staring at us. “People act like they’ve never seen me eat with someone,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry, what?” Gabrielle asks.

“Nothing.” I shake myself mentally.

After we finish eating, Gabrielle runs upstairs to her apartment to get her purse. I pull the truck up to the front entrance to wait for her. I should be bored out of my mind by the idea of going to a farmers market, but I’m not. I’m happy to spend time with Gabrielle.

I’m sitting behind the wheel waiting for her when Killian walks up to my driver’s door and knocks on my window. I roll it down.

“You headin’ out?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’m taking Gabrielle to the farmers market.”

He winks at me. “Don’t have too much fun.”

I don’t see the humor. “I’m just driving her.”

Gabrielle comes out the front doors, jogs over to the truck, and climbs up into the front passenger seat. “Hi, Killian,” she says. Her cheeks are pink, and she’s a bit breathless. She hurried.

Killian pats my door. “Have fun, you two.”

I put the truck in reverse and back out of the parking space. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Gabrielle smiles and shrugs. “They’re just being friendly, I guess.”

I notice she changed clothes. Earlier, she was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, but now she’s got on a cream-colored floral dress, a white lacy sweater, and sandals. The braid is gone, and her hair is hanging loose in soft curls past her shoulders. She’s wearing large gold hoop earrings, and I think she even put on a bit of eye make-up and lip gloss. She looks—wow. Suddenly, I feel very underdressed.

“You look nice,” I say, and immediately I feel stupid for saying it. She always looks nice.

“Thanks.” She turns to face me. “You look nice, too.”

I look down at myself and scowl. I’m dressed like I always am—in blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, boots, and a battered old cowboy hat. Still, her comment makes me smile. “All right, let’s go visit the farmers.”

She laughs at that, and I find my grin widening. She’s easy to talk to, easy to be with. Easy to amuse.

Once we’re on the road, I ask, “So, you’re from Chicago? Were you born there?”

She turns to face me. “Yep. Born and raised.”

“Got any siblings?”

“No, It’s just me. I’m an only child.”

“What about your parents?” I ask.

“They’re from Chicago, too. They’re both retired now and living in Naperville—it’s a suburb west of Chicago. Not too far away. My dad was a pediatrician, and my mom was a math professor at the University of Chicago.”

I like hearing her talk, so I keep the questions coming. “Medicine and math, huh? And you became a chef? How did that happen?”

“My parents were so busy with their careers that they’d get home late each evening. My maternal grandmother, Mary, lived with us then. Honestly, she helped raise me. She let me help her cook dinner every evening. Eventually, I begged her to teach me how to cook, and in the process I fell in love with it. I loved knowing I was helping provide something important for the people I loved.”

She beams, clearly proud of herself. “When I graduated from high school, I went to culinary school. After that, I worked in a couple of small restaurants before I landed a coveted sous-chef position at Renaldo’s.”

“That’s your fancy five-star restaurant?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

“How long did you work there?”

“Six years.”

“Why’d you leave?” I want to keep the conversation going. I love how her eyes light up when she talks about cooking.

Her smile falls. “I loved working there. My boss, Peter, was fantastic. But I could read the writing on the wall. There were too many chefs ahead of me in the hierarchy. I didn’t see much of a path to rise up in the ranks. It’s always been my dream to run my own kitchen, so when Hannah offered me the job, I couldn’t turn it down.”

“Makes sense,” I say. “Lucky for us.”

“What about you?” she asks. “What’s your story?”

“Not much to say really. I spent twelve years in the Army, as a Ranger. Then, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was discharged—honorably, mind you.” I raise my left hand. “Medical discharge. After doing rehab at Walter Reed Hospital, I came back here to Bryce. It’s where I grew up. I returned to my first love—horses. My mother raises horses. I stayed with my folks for a good while, working with the animals again.

When Hannah and Killian decided to open the lodge, they offered me the job of managing the stables and taking guests out on trail rides. I jumped at the chance.”

“Can I ask why you were discharged?” Her voice has softened.

My heart starts hammering, and I hear a ringing in my ears. This is not something I like to talk about—ever. Not with anyone. When I don’t answer, she just sits there patiently, alternately watching the scenery and me. She’s waiting for an answer. It seems rude not to give her one. “I was injured.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I shrug. “It was a long time ago. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“I take it you were burned?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. I try so damn hard to forget. “Yeah. You saw my face and my hand in the barn.”

“Yes.”

“It was an IED—an improvised explosive device. I was driving a supply truck when we hit it. I didn’t even see it. Between the burns and the shrapnel in my leg, I needed lots of rehab, and I could no longer do my job.”

She sits there quietly, still facing me. There’s so much sadness in her eyes, and I can almost feel the waves of sympathy rolling off her. Pity.

“Like I said, I’m fine.” My tone is sharper than I had intended. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

Her brow furrows. “I don’t pity you, John,” she says quietly. But she shifts her position so that she’s facing forward. “I’m just sorry for what you’ve been through.”

That’s the end of our conversation. She stares out the front windshield or her passenger’s window, apparently watching the scenery.

I could kick myself for being an ass. She was just tryin’ to be nice, to make conversation.

The rest of the trip passes in silence until we arrive at the church where the market is held. The parking lot is full, so I end up parking on the grass.  The market is set up on the lawn behind the church—scores of tents and temporary stalls, not to mention a snack bar. The playground is filled with boisterous kids.

I follow Gabrielle into the fray.

“This is amazing,” she says as she glances around at the stalls.

There’s everything imaginable here—fruits and vegetables, fresh-baked bread and other baked goods, local honey, meats, fresh cut flowers, potted plants, yarn, jewelry, quilts, clothing, farming equipment, too.

She grabs one of the plastic grocery baskets stacked all over the place.

“Here, I’ll carry that for you,” I say as I take it from her. I figure I should make myself useful. The smile she gives me in return makes my chest flush with heat.

“Thank you, John.”

I realize I like hearing her use my first name. She’s the only one who does. Everyone else calls me Burke—the guys, co-workers, guests.

Gabrielle stops to talk to each of the stall owners. She introduces herself and finds out what farms grow what. She’s good at this—at meeting people and making connections. That’s something I suck at.

She buys some potatoes and carrots and onions, and into the basket they go.

“I thought I’d make a pot roast for dinner this evening,” she says.

My ears perk up. “Pot roast?”

“Yes, I thought something hearty and comforting would be a good choice.”

Does a bear shit in the woods? “Um, yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”

“We’ll have to make a stop at Ed’s on our way back to the lodge so I can pick up some roasts.”

“Not a problem.” Hell, no, it’s not a problem. I’ll drive her to the moon and back for pot roast.

She picks up a bunch of fresh-cut flowers. “These’ll look nice on the tables. I spotted some small crystal vases in the storage room. I wonder if we have any candles.”

As we meander through the market, Gabrielle checks out all the stalls and everything the sellers have to offer. Eventually, we end up near the snack bar, drawn to the sweet smell of funnel cake.

“I haven’t had funnel cake since I was a kid,” she says. “My parents used to take me to the county fair every summer and having one was the highlight of the trip.”

Of course, we end up buying funnel cake because who doesn’t love funnel cake? We share, each of us taking turns pulling off a piece to eat.

Gabrielle grins as she points at my face.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s powdered sugar on your mustache.”

I attempt to brush it off, but she just laughs and lifts her hand.

“May I?” she asks.

May I touch you? My heart slams against my ribs at just the thought. “Sure.”

Gently, she brushes powdered sugar off my mustache. “There, that’s better.”

“Hey, Gabrielle!”

We turn to find Chris Nelson coming up behind us. He’s wearing blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of shiny black leather boots. Clearly, he’s off duty.

Gabrielle waves at him. “Hi, Chris.”

He reaches us, a bit breathless, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Imagine meeting you here.” He peers into the basket I’m holding. “Potatoes and carrots? Making something special?”

“Yes,” Gabrielle says. “Pot roast is on the menu this evening.”

Chris’s blue eyes widen. “Really? I think I’ll have to stop in for that.”

Chris hangs out with us for the rest of the time we’re at the market. I have no right to be annoyed, but I am. I have no doubt he’s interested in Gabrielle. And why shouldn’t he be? She’s amazing. I should be happy for the both of them.

The sheriff ends up carrying some additional purchases for her, and I follow along like an aimless pack mule.

“I guess we should be going now,” Gabrielle says to me as she checks the time. “We’ve still got to stop at the butcher’s before we return to the lodge. And I should help with the lunch crowd.”

Chris walks with us back to my truck and deposits the items he carried for her in the back. I wish I could hate the guy, but I can’t.

“Thanks, Chris,” she tells him.

Chris nods. “My pleasure, Gabrielle.” His gaze is locked on hers. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

Gabrielle nods. “Don’t be a stranger. Remember—pot roast tonight.”

She gives him a smile, and I can’t tell if it’s a friendly smile or a come-hither smile. If it were up to Chris, I think he’d want it to be the latter kind.

Chris leaves and we climb into the truck.

“That was amazing,” Gabrielle says, sighing as she leans back in her seat. She laughs as she wiggles her feet. “My feet are killing me.”

“You probably should have worn sneakers instead of those sandals. They don’t offer much support.”

“I know.” She laughs. “But they sure do look good.”

True.

On the drive home, we stop at Ed’s, and Gabrielle buys several roasts for dinner tonight. Then we return to the lodge, and I help her carry everything to the kitchen.

It’s close to lunch time.

“Do you want to stay for lunch?” she asks me.

My pulse picks up, and I want to say yes so badly. But I can’t. “Thanks, but no. I’m taking some folks out on a trail ride this afternoon. I have work to do beforehand.”

Her smile falls. “Oh. Okay. Maybe I’ll see you at dinner then.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

As I walk out the lodge doors, I’m still processing the fact she seemed disappointed that I couldn’t stay. It’s been a long time since anyone cared whether I showed up for something or not.